“Okay,” Ramona says, holding out her hand. “Let me see your dating profiles.”
Nick lets out a dramatic groan. “You want to do this now?”
“No time like the present,” she says cheerfully as he passes her his phone.
“Fine. Do your worst. I have a feeling this is about to be extremely humbling.” He sips from his soda, leans back in his seat. “You’ve never been on the apps, have you? Not even that one for celebrities? I’m sure it’s just as brutal as the rest.”
She shakes her head as she navigates to one of his apps. “No, but I know all about image. And this photo?” With a wince, she holds out his phone to show his profile picture. Terrible lighting, a smile that looks more like a grimace, his hair overly combed. God, it’s a travesty that a man this good-looking can take a photo this bad. “It looks like you’re auditioning for the role of socially awkward best friend. And you didn’t get the part.”
In one swift motion, she switches to his camera and takes a photo.
“I wasn’t ready!”
“I’m trying to get a candid!”
He laugh-groans as he pushes back against her arm, and Ramona takes a moment to recover from the brush of skin againstskin. He took off his jacket in the first quarter, revealing defined triceps and those forearms she got a glimpse of a couple weeks back. It’s the first time she’s seen him in a T-shirt.
What she doesn’t say is that he really ought to have a photo that shows off his arms.
It’s true that she doesn’t have experience with dating apps, but she also doesn’t have much experience with relationships. Aside from Zander, she’s never had anything last longer than a couple months.You’re not the girlfriend type,metal drummer Ryan told her after they slept together, even though he’d cheated on his own girlfriend with her—one Ramona hadn’t known about, or she would have put an end to it before it began.
Not the girlfriend type.She’d already been labeled so many times—slut, feminist, antifeminist, shrill, hot, not hot enough—what was one more? Only now she’s wondering what it was about her that made men think:temporary. Good for a few weeks of fun, but not much else.
For all her confidence, she doesn’t know shit about commitment. Maybe she won’t be able to help Nick after all.
She can hear his steady, rhythmic breaths as she swipes through his profile. She was right that being friends with him already feels easy, as long as she ignores his arms, his face, and the fact that he’s once again scruffy and unshaven today. Part of her can’t believe he so willingly surrendered his phone.
He trusts her, she realizes.
She’s not sure if she’s fully earned it, that trust. It’s a heavy thing to hold.
“I see what the problem is,” she says after a while. “You sound too stiff, which is the complete opposite of how you are in real life. Give them some of that sparkling personality!” Anotherswipe. “Under hobbies, it says pub trivia? What’s your team name?”
“I fear you won’t take me seriously as an educator if I tell you.”
“Please tell me it’s not something completely embarrassing like Quiz in my Pants.”
“Risky Quizness,” he says. “We’re really competitive. It’s a bunch of professors, and it’s very dorky, but it’s a lot of fun.”
“That’s about as dorky as I would expect from you, and I respect it. ‘Your ideal partner…’ ” she reads, “ ‘enjoys an evening listening to records and cooking together’—records? You’re into vinyl?”
“A bit of a collector, actually.”
She used to be the same—only now most of her records are locked away in the room she never enters.
“…‘and then going to the farmers’ market the next morning.’ Actually, that part’s really nice. I don’t get why no one has fallen in love with you yet.”
“Truthfully?” He balances his elbows on his knees again, glancing down at the court, where kids are taking halftime free-throw shots. “The idea of a serious relationship is a little terrifying. I’ve only had the one experience, and obviously we both know how that ended. It’s strange, because being divorced usually comes up on the first date, if it hasn’t come up earlier. And then you get this new kind of judgment. You can see the wheels turning in the other person’s head as they try to figure out why, and if you’re someone they should be wary of.”
There’s an undeniable shyness as he says all of this, so out of sync with how he usually carries himself. Ramona silently wishes hell upon anyone who’d write him off just because his marriage didn’t work out.
“Please don’t feel sorry for me,” he says when she’s quiet a beat too long. “It was for the best. I know that now.”
“I’m not,” she lies. She fiddles with her ponytail again, wondering how much she can get away with. “Can I ask what happened?”
“Why we got divorced?”
“We don’t have to talk about it if—”
